


Tobias Gregson Puts Pen to Paper

by wordybirdy



Series: Trifle Bubbles - One-Shots & Multi-Chaptered [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And tells us a little of his past, his present, and the exceptional events that followed a certain Christmas Eve celebration at 221B Baker Street. </p><p>(This is the Inspector Gregson of my multi-chaptered stories.  The reader doesn't need to be familiar with the multi-chapters to appreciate this one-shot, but it might help as there are many passing references to previous plotlines.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tobias Gregson Puts Pen to Paper

It seems strange enough to me that I find myself putting pen to paper to write this, what, romance? Memoir? _Self-indulgence_ , more like. I should perhaps place the blame at the feet of that fellow who pens the cases for that smart-alec, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Ha – well, like as not that is an unfair thing for me to say. For we are on friendly terms now. I should amend my words and say that I, Tobias Gregson, was _inspired_ by Dr. John Watson's painstaking recounts of his work with the great consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. That's better. Inspired to write up something of my own. Not casework. Personal. For no eyes other than my own. For my own amusement. Here we go, then.

You (non-existent reader) should bear with me, as all I have written at length prior to these pages have been police reports: dry as dust, except for when they are not. For over ten years now, a Scotland Yard Inspector. Ten years, with the likes of Lestrade – whom I admire and respect well enough, don't get me wrong – and other sundry lunatics. The biggest lunatic of the lot is not a Scotland Yard Inspector at all. The biggest lunatic resides at 221B Baker Street, with a handsome doctor on whom I once set my sights. That all came to naught. I still wonder, sometimes, what that would have been like. We never even got to the first post. If I could have had my way, John Watson would have been unable to wipe the resulting smile from his face for five years straight. Don't ask me what he sees in Mr. Holmes. I am glad that the Doctor is happy. I am even glad that Mr. Holmes is happy, for that matter. But still I wonder, sometimes.

I was thirteen-years-old when I came to the slow dawning realisation that I was an invert. I got my first taste of It a year later (a much older man, but he was kind and gentle and took his time. I was lucky; some others are not so.). I hung around _those_ types of places, ravenous. And was rewarded, often enough. I always did look older than my years. Street smart, too. Are you surprised that I turned my eye towards a career which would have me behind bars if it knew of what I did and whom I did it with? It has always been my nature to walk close to the flame. I have morals, too, a sense of justice; they steered me on my path. I kept my trap shut when on duty, and disguised myself well when seeking my pleasure that none should recognise me. A wig, spectacles, smart garb, aye, they did the trick. It should have amused me if I had ever bumped into any of my colleagues from the Yard, at some of the places I frequented. Alas, that I did not, the straight-laced bunch. All sat at home with their wives, in front of their blazing fires, or propping up a regular bar somewhere; the type of bar I never frequented. Dull as ditch-water; filled with fools.

A great many one-night alliances, then. Back to my dump, or to theirs, if they lived alone without any interfering landlady to shout up the stairs after us: “ _No visitors allowed!_ ” Tall ones, short ones, moustached, clean-shaven, clean or filthy-minded, gentle, or the sort who'd try to knock your block off and swipe your wallet. Those sort would come off the worse for it. Rarely the same one twice. Well, it's fun at first, but it palls sooner or later, when the loneliness gets you in the gut and you start to thinking: “ _I wish that I might find a nice lad to settle down with._ ” It's hard to find someone permanent when you have to cover up your tracks, what you do for your living, and all the rest of it. Even the sweet-faced fellows can be liable to blackmail. Who can you trust these days? A stiff prick is no guarantee. It is said that it takes a woman to nest, to build a proper relationship, a marriage. I would have to agree it is a harder task to forge the equivalent with another fellow. Those who succeed are fortunate indeed. It is not in the way of men to settle, or at least not the ones that I have met across the years. Like as not I was looking in all of the wrong places. I thought that I had found him, once – as I have said – but of course, he had his own love, and I received a black eye and concussion for my trouble. I shall be mentioning no names; I suppose that I deserved it. It was an awkward time for a while, but things have a way of working out for the greater good.

Inspector Lestrade is the only one at the Yard who knows my nature. I should not have told him out of the blue, except that we were discussing Mr. Holmes and the dear Doctor, and he had made mention of their intimacy, in confidence. He did not declare it with any tone of judgement in his voice; rather, with a respect and fond regard. I realised that although he was not so inclined himself, he would not swoop to condemn or persecute. Inspector Lestrade is a good man. I unburdened a little of my own trials to him; he listened and was sympathetic, offered me advice which I would choose to ignore but was grateful for nonetheless. A large weight off my shoulders – for how heavy it sits when there is none other to tell or anyone with whom to share it.

And when the Doctor came to me with his worries regarding those insulting notes pushed through their letterbox, and him, that kind-hearted soul, and his friend Mr. Holmes, both fearing exposure, well, what else could I do but my best to assist? I would hope that they might do the same for me, were I to find myself in a similar position.

A bachelor life for me, then, until it came about that Lestrade and I were both invited to that small Christmas party at Baker Street. I remember that the snow was thick and heavy; we arrived and we were covered from head to toe from it. Mr. Holmes laughed at us. We warmed ourselves by the fire, exchanging pleasantries. And then the brother, Mycroft Holmes turned up, bringing a pal along with him. The pal was a young fellow by the name of Victor Burroughs.

And that was how it began.

I felt it in the pit of my stomach: that low curling excitement when you know something is about to happen, or might happen if damned fate doesn't intervene and put the ratchet on it. 

Oh, but he was a fine one: blond, blue-eyed, compact and tight in that smart suit of his. When he opened his mouth to speak, the words that came out of it weren't those of smart-alec or fool. He had breeding and good manners. He enquired so very pleasantly as to my plans for the festive season. He seemed to find me as amiable company as I was undoubtedly finding him. We sat together during the dinner. By the end of the evening I had summoned up all my nerve and had written a short note expressing a desire to see him again. If nothing were to come of it, well, then it could be explained away as a simple friendly gesture. He accepted the note, he tucked it away; my heart pummelled at my chest. I should have preferred to have left with him directly, rather than mess around with notes and protracted dallying, but well, it was Christmas Eve, and there was one thing and another, and I thought it best that I not be presumptuous.

Christmas Day was hell itself, spent away with members of my family, but a hundred times over I was wishing I might be at home alone, to think in peace of my new intrigue.

Boxing Day, I paced my rooms; the small, cold rabbit warren that I called home. I hardly expected him to call. As the hours passed, I expected it even less. And then he did. I heard the timid knock upon my door, and I fair leapt to it: please let it be him.

“Good afternoon.” That smiling, anxious face looking up at me. How I wanted to cup it, kiss it, thank it for coming here to be with me. “I do hope that I am not disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” said I, clutching my nerve, stepping back into the hallway and waving him in. “You are welcome indeed.”

He entered, all pent-up nerves, I could tell from the look of him. Maybe he was not sure himself as to why he was here. Perhaps he had half-heartedly tried talking himself out of it a handful of times. 

“Coffee?”

“Oh, yes please. Thank you.”

I set the kettle to the stove. I turned around from it to eye him.

“Did you have a pleasant Christmas, lad?”

“Yes, it was quite delightful. Inspector --”

“Tobias. Call me Tobias.”

“Tobias. Um.” The poor fellow hesitated then, ran out of ready words. “Do please call me Victor,” he said finally, with a shy smile. “I did so enjoy meeting you the other evening,” he added. “We had such a lovely time, did we not?”

“Aye, that we did, Victor,” I replied. _I want you in my bed. Right now._ “Sugar?”

“One spoonful, thank you.”

“Would you care for something to eat?” _Naked, on my bed. On your back and waiting for me._ “I have cake, or might you prefer bread and butter?”

“Oh, no thank you, I am not hungry... Tobias.”

We sat across from one another at the kitchen table, our coffee cups to serve as a barrier. He spoke to me a little more of his family, his work and solitary lifestyle. I found that I could concentrate only on his mouth, his moving lips, the tentative swipes of his tongue to moisten them. Then the gentle bobbing in his throat as he took a swallow from his cup.

Eventually the talk ran dry, and we found ourselves staring at each other, in the almost silence; just the timepiece on the mantel ticking seconds.

I reached out my index finger, lightly brushed it across the side of his left hand. Not so easily explained away, but oh, he did not flinch. Do you know what he said?

“Yes...”

That was what he said. And so soft, I could hardly catch it. But I caught it and locked eyes with him again, and his expression was so open and so trusting and so sweet.

“Yes?” I had to be sure.

“Yes.” Those great, beautiful blue eyes of his, crinkling into a smile.

And I confess that my heart leapt. 

I stood up from my chair, as he did also. I moved around to stand close and face him, reaching up to place a hand upon his shoulder. I leaned in to press my lips to his. His mouth was soft and yielding. My other hand upon his neck could detect the wild fluttering of his pulse.

“Are you all right?” I whispered to him, between kisses.

“I think so,” said he, almost gasping.

“You have done this before?” I asked.

Blue eyes blinking up at me, unsure. “Kissing?”

I leaned in, to his ear. “And the rest of it.”

“Once.”

I released him, examined his face which was hot and flushed.

“Would you prefer that we take things slowly?” (For I did not wish to push against his will.)

“No. I do want to. To do this.”

I had never courted a lad in this way before: of being unsure, of wanting to do the right thing by him. When you meet someone of a like mind in a bar or in a private club, well, you both know what you are in for and what you want. But this was different. He was different. I wanted to take care of him – as ridiculous as that must surely sound.

I took his hand, and drew him towards my bedroom. The room was bitter. I pulled the curtains closed and lit the lamp against the shadows. I knelt down by the small hearth and urged a fire into life. Straightening up, I turned to see him, now sitting on the bed. He had removed his jacket; had loosened the knot of his tie. He smiled at me.

“It is cold,” he said.

“I know,” I replied, and sorry for it. “The fire will warm us up.”

I moved towards him, sat down upon the bed quite close. _You are beautiful._

“You are beautiful,” I said, without thinking, before realising I had only voiced my innermost thoughts. Cursing myself for my openness, I looked down into my lap and twisted my hands, embarrassed.

The bed creaked. He had stood up, was moving away. I looked up, half expecting that he had taken fright and was departing the quickest way he might. But he remained. He was unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

“And you are handsome,” said he, the corners of his mouth teasing up.

I had a cockstand and his shirt was not the halfway off yet.

He was unbuttoning his trousers, and it was all that I could do not to lunge forward for him.

He was removing his soft woollen undergarments, and I wanted to fall down upon my knees and wrap my lips around him.

For one so shy he now seemed to have cast away all of his modesty with his clothing, for he was reclining on the bed quite bare and as eager as I had ever known any lad to be. For my part, I had risen in awe without wasting words; was now stripping off my own garb to the skin.

I threw myself beside him, with the bedsprings complaining loudly. I stroked his goosebumped flesh and kissed his throat. He caressed my back and ran his fingers through my hair. We pressed ourselves together and listened to the other's groan. I explored the every inch of him; I licked and lapped and brought us both against the edge.

“Will you let me?” I asked him.

He knew what I meant, what I wanted. I was grateful that I should not need to explain or draw a diagram.

“It has been a long while for me,” he said. “Please, can we do it slowly?”

We did it slowly.

You know what I mean. You do not need me to explain or draw a diagram.

It felt like heaven.

I discovered that it is very different when you actually like the other fellow.

He lay in my arms afterwards, curled into me, a hand upon my chest.

“Will you stay?” I asked. For through the thin chinks in the curtain, the winter sky was a dark blue and turning towards the eve.

He kissed my shoulder, softly. “If you will allow it.”

The silly lad. Did he think that I might not?

We awoke together, much later, when the fire had all but burned out and our breath blew white. I rose and added two blankets to the bed. I crawled beneath them, curled around him and pulled him back into the crook of me. I took him again like that without a further word between us.

In the morning: 

“I should very much like to see you again.”

He looked up from his coffee cup, the steam from it shining up his face. “Yes, please,” said he. “I was so hoping that it would not be just the once.”

“If I had my way I might not let you leave here at all,” I said, with a grin and a wink. 

I believe he took that as a compliment and not a threat.

The good Doctor came to visit me in my office at the Yard a few short weeks later. I was glad to see him. He sat himself down in the chair by my desk, and we spoke of the case that Mr. Holmes and I were engaged with at that time. At an appropriate pause in the conversation, he brought up a new topic.

“How goes it with Victor?” he asked, in that gentle way of his. 

I admit that I was taken by surprise. “How did you know about that?” I asked. “Ah, but why do I even bother asking. Mr. Holmes and his observant nature.” I leaned in towards him. “It is going extremely well,” I winked. “My goodness, yes, I could not be happier. Thank you for enquiring, Doctor.”

“That is excellent, Gregson, I am very happy for you,” said he, with a gentlemanly smile.

I leaned forward, assumed my front of bluster, unable to resist the mischief.

“A fantastic cock on him,” I whispered.


End file.
